


With a Little Help From My Friends

by FanFictionette



Category: The Beatles
Genre: Bonding, Brotherly Love, Fluffy Ending, Gen, Hospitalization, Sickfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-13
Updated: 2016-08-21
Packaged: 2018-08-08 13:51:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 14,044
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7760299
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FanFictionette/pseuds/FanFictionette
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's 1964, and Beatlemania is at its peak when the Fab Four touch down in NYC to begin their first American tour. Nothing can stop the Beatles from continuing to top the charts all over the globe, and it seems that life couldn't be better for John, Paul, George, and Ringo. However, things are never quite as perfect as they seem, are they?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. If I Needed Someone

**Author's Note:**

> Just to clarify, this story isn't based off of anything that actually happened to the Beatles while on tour. This isn't historically accurate whatsoever, it's just for fun. Enjoy!

It was not often that George Harrison didn’t protest when he wound up sandwiched between John and Paul in the backseat, Ringo noticed as the car pulled away from the airport, leaving behind a mob of screaming fans. The lead guitarist loved sightseeing, but the band was rarely allowed to leave their hotel rooms, so George had to get his fill of the cities they toured from the windows of limousines and trains.

As Mal Evans maneuvered the car slowly through the throngs of teenage girls pressing in on all sides, Ritchie found himself studying his youngest companion intently. George appeared to be sleeping, or at least trying to, despite the roar of the crowd surrounding them. Of this, John and Paul took no notice. They were far too busy practicing their perfect camera grins for the hysterical fans clawing at the car as the Beatles tried to make their escape.

Slowly but surely, the crowds thinned out until they were finally driving at a steady pace through the streets of New York City. The band was in awe as they rolled past skyscrapers, elegant hotels, and theaters advertising films with bright flashing lights. Still, George remained motionless in the backseat. In fact, despite the commotion of the city surrounding the Beatles, the youngest band member actually appeared to be napping.

Touring was an incredibly taxing experience. The boys lived in a constant state of jet lag and exhaustion as they jetted around from state to state, country to country, overseas and back again. The Beatles had grown used to sleeping whenever and wherever they could, a few hours here on a flight, another few moments there between rehearsals or interviews. Life as a Beatle could really wear the boys down at times. Perhaps George was coming down with something. If so, it certainly wouldn’t be the first time that one of them had played through illness and fatigue.

After a few more minutes of weaving through the metropolitan streets, the limousine slowed to a halt outside the world-renowned Carnegie Hall and was immediately engulfed by a swarm of hysterical teenage girls.

“Alright lads, we’ve got to get in rather quickly. No autographs or pictures, just a few quick hellos and then we have to start preparing for the show.” Instructed Brian Epstein from the front passenger seat, turning around to face the band. “We’re on a very tight schedule and-” The Beatles’ manager stopped dead when he caught sight of George. “Is he asleep?”

Epstein’s question prompted John and Paul to take notice of their friend slumbering between them.

“Blimey,” John remarked, “Looks like ‘e is.”

“C’mon Geo.” Paul murmured. “Rise and shine, we’re ‘ere now.”

George’s long eyelashes fluttered and the young musician moaned softly. He woke up rather sluggishly despite the pandemonium occurring just outside the car.

“Right, George, as I was saying, just a few smiles for the crowd and then straight in. We’ve got a very busy day ahead of us.” Eppy reiterated.

And then the doors were open, and the Beatles stepped out of the car, flashing their perfect camera grins and waving to the enthusiastic fans pressing against the police-erected barriers.

To the crowds, George outwardly appeared as chipper and enthusiastic as his fellow bandmates, but in truth the young star wasn’t feeling quite well. The Beatles had been woken at the crack of dawn to board a flight from Heathrow to JFK, and they were expected to endure the day without rest until after their concert that evening.

Flying was something that had always made George nervous and queasy, but he’d been nauseous and without appetite since he’d woken up that morning. It was just his luck to come down with some sort of virus right before a such a significant performance. Nonetheless, he’d just have to muddle through.

Upon entering the grand music hall, the group could see their instruments, amplifiers and other equipment set up on stage as it would be for their performance that night. A few of the stage technicians could be seen milling about on stage and in the aisles, but without an audience to fill the seats, the theater seemed cavernously empty.

“Come ‘ead lads.” Mal signaled for the band to follow him down onto the stage. Like ducklings following their mother, John, Paul, George and Ringo did as they were told. The stage had been outfitted with risers of varying height for the boys to stand on during their performance. Ringo’s drum kit was set up on the tallest one, closest to the back of the stage, and the other three Beatles had shorter ones towards the front, nearer to the audience. The boys immediately went to go tune up their instruments for rehearsal.

“Now, we’re going to do a full run-through of tonight’s setlist. You have to have this down _perfectly_. We can’t afford to make any mistakes tonight.” Brian always became fussy and uptight before a big performance. Epstein could push the band at times, but he did want the best for them. They were all incredibly talented, but Brian knew they wouldn’t rehearse without a fair bit of nagging on his part. There was far too much to see and do in the city, and it could be difficult to focus on work.

“Ah, Brian, come on!” John groused. “We’re in New York City! There are thousands of things we could do today! We’ve played hundreds of shows before, we’ll be _fine_!”

“John, no.” Mal stepped in before Brian could become more cross. “This kind of audience is unprecedented. We need to be at the absolute top of our game tonight.”

The lead guitarist sighed angrily and rolled his eyes. Thankfully, John didn’t seem to think it worth it to continue arguing, and the run-through went along without any further trouble.

Later, as the band ducked out of the back exit and into the car waiting, Ringo noticed George lingering at the back of the group. The young lead guitarist looked pale and dreadfully exhausted, so the drummer slowed his pace enough for George to catch up with him.

“Y’okay there, Geo?” Ritchie asked, making sure the others were out of earshot. “Ye seemed a bit off back there…”

“I’m alright, Rings,” The younger Beatle assured his friend with a weak smile. “M’ still just jet lagged, I guess…”

“Yeah, still pretty tired meself.” The drummer greed with a kind smile. “Maybe ye can catch a quick rest at the hotel.” He offered helpfully as the two clambered into the back seat.

 

…

By the time the Beatles and their entourage had reached their hotel room, nearly everyone was aware that George was feeling poorly. Brian remained oblivious, as he often was when he became immersed in his managerial duties, but the other boys were growing rather concerned about their youngest mate, much to George’s dismay. He didn’t feel at all well, and he just wanted everyone to let him suffer in peace.

Paul was particularly annoying in that respect. The bassist’s fierce determination to pry information from the lead guitarist was downright infuriating. He was _twenty-one years old_ for Christ’s sake, George certainly didn’t need Paul to take care of him!

Truth be told, George was also very afraid of letting his mates down; tonight was far too important for him to be causing trouble.

“Geo, we’re gonna call for room service. What d’ye want?” Paul’s voice brought George back to reality with a start.

“M’ not hungry…” The lead guitarist muttered irritably, burrowing deeper into his seat on the corner of the sofa.

 _Now_ Paul was extremely concerned. George Harrison refusing to eat was a _very_ bad sign. Despite the Beatle’s rather scrawny appearance, the lead guitarist had a reputation for being a bottomless pit of hunger, often going so far as to help himself to whatever was left on his friend’s plates after a meal.

“Are ye feelin’ alright, Georgie?” Paul asked gently for what felt like the billionth time that day. “It’s okay if ye’re not. No one’s gonna be mad at ye if ye’re feelin’ ill…” The bassist added, hoping it might encourage his mate to be honest.

“I dunno… Think I’m comin’ down with somethin’…” The young musician admitted at long last. “I _really_ don’t feel too good…”

“Now, that wasn’t so bad, was it?” The older Beatle joked. “I’ll go talk t’ Brian, see what we can do for ye. I think Ritchie went to go get changed…” Paul trailed off, glancing around the room. “Want me ta see if Johnny’ll come sit with ye?”

George nodded almost imperceptibly, and with that, Paul went off to get the rhythm guitarist. John was in one of the bedrooms, stretched out on top of the duvet with his nose in a book.

“Ey, Lennon.” Paul greeted his friend, who looked up from his book in mild interest.

“What’s new, Paulie?” John asked with a smirk, closing the book and rising from the bed.

“Bad news.” McCartney stated. “Looks like Harrison’s gettin’ sick. I’ve got ta go talk t’ Eppy, see what we can do for ‘im.”

“Shit…” John swore. “Brian’s gonna throw a fit…”

“I know.” Paul agreed with a sardonic eye-roll. “I told Georgie that ye’d sit with ‘im while I deal with Epstein. Try and convince ‘im t’ get some rest, will ye?”

John nodded, and followed his younger bandmate out of the bedroom and into the living area. Paul continued into the other bedroom, where he found Brian angrily talking on the phone.

“Yes, I _understand_ that there was another rehearsal, but I hope that you understand exactly who you’re dealing with!” Epstein snapped. “I trust that you’ll ensure that _everything_ is returned to its original setup.” He paused to listen for a moment. “No, leave the instruments backstage. They’ll have to re-tune them now. Right, goodbye.” Paul’s manager concluded, slamming down the receiver.

“Brian?” Paul chimed in tentatively, reluctant to add to the immense stress his manager was already feeling.

“What is it now?!” Epstein snapped, running a hand through his close-cropped hair in exasperation.

“I- um, George’s taken ill…” Paul said, anxiously wringing his hands. Epstein’s expression softened immediately.

“Did he say what’s the matter?”

“Just that ‘e didn’t feel well.” Paul explained, “Said it just hit ‘im a little while ago. John convinced him to try and catch a kip on the sofa but ‘e says ‘e can still play.”

“I’ll have to talk to the press then, and have George excused from the conference. He’ll have to rest up if he still wants to play the show tonight.” Brian sighed, “We can’t afford to have him getting sick in front of all those reporters…” He added under his breath, reaching for the phone on the table beside him.

Walking into the next room and leaving Brian to deal with the press, Paul found George curled up on the couch with his arms wrapped protectively around his stomach. John was crouched at eye level with their youngest bandmate, checking George’s temperature and coaxing him to tell the rhythm guitarist what was wrong.

“C’mon Georgie, yer runnin’ a temp’rature; there’s no use keepin’ it a secret. We all know yer not feelin’ well and if ye tell us we can ‘ave ye feelin’ bettah for the show tonight.” John reasoned softly. Paul noted that John could very well have been comforting his infant son Julian.

“Me stomach hurts, and I feel sick…” George admitted after a moment, swallowing thickly.

“I’ve got just the thing.” Ringo piped up, ever the mother hen. “Nice cuppa mint tea might help ye feel better.” He said, heading for the tiny hotel kitchen.

“There now,” John smiled, rising from the floor, “we’ll ‘ave ye up to snuff in no time. Now try and rest a bit.” He finished, ruffling his mate’s hair affectionately.

“Aw, how’s the little one?” Paul quipped with a wry smirk, emerging from where he had been lingering near the doorway.

“Georgie Boy’s got ‘imself a tummy ache.” John mock-pouted, never one to miss an opportunity for sarcasm. “But I think ‘e’ll be sorted out by showtime.”

“Brian’s tryin’ to get ‘im excused from the press conference now.” Paul commented, gesturing to the room behind him.

John nodded agreeably, “Good, let ‘im rest while ‘e can.”

Over the next hour, George was given a piece of toast and a cup of mint tea to help settle his upset stomach, while the rest of the band rushed about getting ready for their press conference. The lead guitarist really hadn’t been hungry at all that day, but his mates wouldn’t allow his to toss back a few aspirin on an empty stomach, lest it make him feel worse.

Watching everyone preparing for the conference had tied a knot of guilt in the George’s chest, and it was growing tighter by the minute. His friends had been wonderfully accommodating, insisting that he put on his pajamas and rest comfortably until the show, but he still couldn’t help kicking himself.

 _Should’ve just sucked it up and gone to the conference…_ George thought bitterly, wincing as he was struck briefly by a sharp wave of pain. He sighed, kneading his fingers irritably into his stomach to ease his discomfort.

Their manager was a bit reluctant to leave their youngest by himself in the hotel room, but Brian reasoned that it would be better to have security concentrated where the majority of the boys would be. Glancing down at his watch, he gave the order to head out, and three fourths of the Beatles filed out the door following their head of security. Before stepping out into the carpeted hallway, Brian turned on his heel so that he was facing the youngest Beatle, who was miserably curled up on the sofa underneath a blanket.

Epstein strode back over to him and fleetingly pressed his hand underneath George’s sweat-dampened bangs. He wasn’t quite burning up, but he was definitely feverish.

“George” The older man’s voice took on a delicate and matronly tone, “please try and get some rest, don’t just watch television. Do you want me to send for a doctor to come and have a look at you?”

“I don’t need a doctah.” George smirked weakly. “I’ll rest Eppy; promise.”

Epstein smiled encouragingly before closing the door behind him to join the rest of the band. Out in the hallway, the boys chattered amongst themselves while they waited for the elevator, and Brian rejoined them just in time.

“Ey, Ringo…” Paul murmured as the doors slid closed and the elevator lurched downward, “D’ye think Harrison’ll be alright for the concert tonight?”

“Macca, it’s George, remember?” The older Beatle grinned, “’e probably just overdid it at dinnertime again and didn’t want t’ tell anyone. Mark my words, he’ll be right as rain by showtime.”

Paul smirked briefly before directing his gaze to his shoes. The bassist knew that Ringo knew that George was getting sick, but he said nothing. The drummer was just doing his best to remain optimistic and to keep Paul from worrying. Ritchie also kept his anxious thoughts to himself as he futilely tried to push aside the nagging realization that overeating generally didn’t result in a fever. Now that he was thinking about it, Ringo wasn’t sure that he had seen George eat at all today… The drummer was beginning to feel extremely stupid for what he’d just said.

“Since when did you lot become so fuckin’ _depressed_?” John broke the uneasy silence that had fallen over the group, making everyone jump.

“Just worried about Harrison, I guess…” Paul admitted.

“It’s a big show tonight, all those celebrities.” Ringo chimed in, “don’t want him t’ miss out…”

“He’ll be just fine without the both of ye coddlin’ ‘im.” The rhythm guitarist joked, “I swear, if ye were all half as nice ta me…”

Mal chuckled and rolled his eyes, “Play nice, Lennon.”

As if on cue, the lift shuddered to a halt and the doors slid open, immediately exposing the boys to the blinding flash of hundreds of cameras and the roar of reporters all clamoring to have their questions heard.

“John, are you aware that Marilyn Monroe will be in the audience this evening?”

“Mr. Epstein, are you planning another film?”

“How does it feel to be playing at such a prestigious venue?”

“Paul, when will the band be releasing a new album?”

Mal quickly shoved his way in front of the boys and began to plow a path through the throngs of reporters and photographers to the stage at the front of the room. Like a well-oiled machine, the band took their customary places at their individual microphones. It seemed strange to be up on the platform, looking out over the sea of people with one of their members missing and Brian in his stead.

“All right, all right now if you could just settle down I’m sure we can get to all of your questions!” Epstein’s clear, commanding voice rang out over the crowd, and the roar of voices died down to a low hum almost instantly.

“Mr. Epstein?” Called a young brunette reporter, “Mr. Epstein? Where is George Harrison?” she asked.

He’d been hoping that he would have a few minutes to formulate a more carefully-worded answer to that question which had been sure to come up, but Brian Epstein had learned long ago never to expect mercy from the paparazzi.

“Mr. Harrison isn’t feeling very well at the moment.” Immediately the crowd began buzzing with interest. “However, he has opted out of this conference in order to rest so that he might still be able to play the show tonight.”

Once again a tidal wave of questions crashed over them.

“Exactly how ill is Mr. Harrison?”

“Is the rest of the tour in jeopardy?”

“What will the Beatles do without their rhythm guitarist tonight?”

Brian was on the verge of snapping at the audience, but thankfully John had decided it was time to jump in with some trademark Lennon wit.

“Settle down now, will ye?” John drawled, flashing a well-practiced camera grin. “Yes, it’s true, poor little Georgie does have a bit of a tummy ache, but ‘e’s a tough lad.” The rhythm guitarist chuckled, as did the audience. “I’m sure ‘e’ll pull through.”

“Ye’d practically ‘ave ta tie ‘im down t’ keep ‘im offstage” Paul chimed in, earning more smiles from the reporters.

“What ye _should_ be worried about is Paul keepin’ ‘is hands off Marilyn Monroe tonight!!” Ringo joked, and the audience erupted in laughter.

With that, the tension in the room dissipated, and the boys began to banter among themselves and with the paparazzi until a friendly rapport of questions and answers had been established. Watching from the wings, it never ceased to amaze Mal just how quickly the boys could have their audience eating from their hands.

Up on the stage, Brian had allowed his thoughts to wander now that the danger of an angry mob no longer seemed present. He wondered how George was faring back in their suite, and what a setback tonight might mean for the rest of the tour. Epstein hoped their lead guitarist was feeling better, not just because a cancelled show would be absolute hell, but because he really did care about his boys the Beatles. True, they were grown and could take care of themselves, but Brian still found himself acting as a parent every now and again; and he liked to see them all safe and happy just as much as their own parents would.

Really, they were like his children in so many ways. He had watched them grow up from their skiffle days touring shady clubs in Hamburg to playing for the Queen herself on the Royal Variety Show. He watched them bicker, argue and make up, sometimes several times in one day. Brian had witnessed the despondency that had fallen over all of them when Ringo had to spend ten nights in hospital and Jimmie Nicol had replaced him on tour; and he had laughed along with them when they all collapsed into fits of giggles during those late-night recording sessions. Yes, they really were his boys. They squabbled and shouted and went to bed in a huff, then tickled each other awake the very next morning; and like a proud father, Brian had been there to witness it all firsthand.

“Mr. Epstein?” A voice jolted him back to reality. He found himself looking at the same young brunette reporter from earlier, the one who had first asked about George.

“-um, yes, sorry,” Brian cleared his throat, “Could you repeat the question please miss?” The audience seemed to take little notice of his momentary lapse in composure, but he could see John, Paul and Ringo giving each other sidelong glances.

“Mr. Epstein, if indeed Mr. Harrison is too sick to play, when would concertgoers be informed of a cancelled show?” She asked kindly.

“Well, of course we would like to inform any fans of a cancelled concert as soon as possible in order to issue rain-check tickets…” Brian began carefully, “But we would also like to give George as much time as we can for him to decide if he feels up to playing tonight. A few extra moments rest could make all the difference.” Epstein could see some of the audience members nodding thoughtfully, agreeing with his logic, and he knew he had answered correctly.

Quickly glancing down at his wristwatch, Brian noted that it was still a long time until he could wrap up the conference on the grounds of preparing for the show, and he found himself silently praying that the boys would fall back into one of their engaging chats with the press as his thoughts drifted back to their ailing lead guitarist.

…

Meanwhile, alone in their hotel suite, George had already made up his mind about playing the show. The thought of letting the rest of the band down was one he could not even bring himself to consider. He would just have to push through. After all it was just a bellyache… and John _had_ recorded “Twist and Shout” with that awful sore throat…

Yes, he would be fine, he was absolutely sure of it. In fact, Ringo’s mint tea had mostly assuaged the nausea George had been feeling nearly all day, and the aspirin had taken the edge off the dull, throbbing ache centered behind his navel. It had been decided; there was no way in hell that George Harrison would allow himself to be the weak link on a night such as this. Glancing at the clock on the wall, George noticed that it wouldn’t be long until everyone else returned.

 _May as well get dressed…_ The young man sighed, swinging his legs off the couch and starting towards the bedroom he had been sharing with Ringo. Brian had been kind enough to leave his clothes for the show hanging on the back of the door. Slowly, gingerly George changed out of his pajamas and the grey suit that matched the ones Paul, John and Ringo were wearing for the press conference. Standing and moving, even for a short time was making him feel weak and dizzy, but he was determined to play the show with the rest of the band. Once he was dressed, he walked into the cramped bathroom to comb his sweat-dampened hair and splash some cold water on his flushed face.

He stopped to look in the full length mirror on the back of the door. George chuckled to himself; he didn’t look half-bad for someone who was feeling pretty miserable. True, his stomach was still troubling him, but combing his hair had made him look considerably less haggard, and the cold water had helped to create the illusion of a healthy complexion.

As if on cue, the lead guitarist heard the front door open, followed by the noisy chatter of his bandmates. George supposed he was as ready to face the night as he would ever be.

“George, love?” Ringo called.

“In ‘ere…” The younger man responded tiredly, steeling his will to face the night ahead. Taking one last glance in the mirror, George strode out into the living room to rejoin the rest of the band.

“You’re dressed!” Brian commented as George appeared in the doorframe, raising his eyebrows in surprise. The musician’s only reply was a half-hearted smirk.

“Think ye’re up ta playin’ tonight Geo? How’s yer stomach?” John asked with unexpected tenderness.

“I’m fine, Johnny. Ye’re not getting’ rid o’ me that easy.” The lead guitarist smiled. “Ye’d ‘ave ta kill me t’ keep me from playin!” Pre-show jitters were beginning to take over, and George eagerly awaited the bursts of adrenaline he knew would soon follow; he was going to need all the energy he could muster.

“And ye’re sure ye’ll be alright? Ye don’t want ta see a doctah?” John questioned again in all seriousness, pressing his hand to George’s cheek to gauge his temperature. Thankfully, he didn’t seem to be burning up any longer.

“Atta boy, Harrison!” Paul interrupted happily, giving his younger mate an encouraging thump on the back.

“Glad you’re feeling better, George.” Mal said kindly. “Don’t know what we’d do without you!”

“Alright everyone, there’s a car waiting out front to take us to the concert hall.” Brian announced, “And now that we know George is coming with us, we should get there as early as possible, so let’s head out. Your instruments have been moved backstage, so you’ll have to re-tune them when we arrive.”

This time, all four Beatles followed their manager out the door, tailed by their head of security. Piling into the elevator for the second time that night, the three healthy Beatles jabbered animatedly amongst themselves, and with Brian and Mal. Everyone was too excited about the concert to notice George standing quietly in the corner, eyes closed, taking short, measured breaths in attempt to control his discomfort. Even the steady downward motion of the elevator was enough to make him feel nauseous again, and he was afraid that he would be sick all over his bandmates.

Mercifully, the elevator stopped and the doors slid open. Even from inside, the boys could hear the deafening screams of their fans.

“They aren’t even goin’ t’ _see_ us…” Paul commented under his breath.

“Right, now the car is out back,” Brian began, as if he had read the bassist’s mind, “so you boys won’t be walking through that…” He finished with an understanding smile.

The group managed to get to the car without incident, but inside George found the motion making him feel ill once more. The lead guitarist looked sullenly out the window while everyone else chatted away merrily. He would not throw up, and he would not ruin the concert. This show was far too important to be cancelled just because poor little Georgie had a tummy ache.

Being the youngest in the group could get tough at times. George loved his mates, and there was nothing in the world better than touring with them’ but sometimes it was incredibly frustrating how everyone doted on him, whether he wanted the attention or not. He knew that his friends would never intentionally put him down, but it seemed like his ideas were always the ones swept under the rug because John and Paul had been writing hits for much longer. George was determined to maintain a brave face; he couldn’t stand the thought of everyone mothering him and treating him like the baby for the rest of the night if he let on about just how horrid he was feeling. So, he closed his eyes, tried to take deep breaths, and most importantly, kept his mouth shut.


	2. Help!

George was beginning to doze off just as they were arriving at their destination. Yet again that night the Beatles could hear the ecstatic shrieking of thousands of teenage girls lined up around the block. Staring out the window, John found himself reflecting on the fact that many of them probably didn’t even have tickets, they were just hoping to catch a glimpse of the band on their way into the theater. It was barmy, really. Even though John and his mates had played in countless stadiums and theaters worldwide for thousands of screaming fans, he still felt like they were just four boys from Liverpool.

Mal had been kind enough to pull around to the stage door entrance at the back of the theater to spare them the agony of marching in the front door with droves of hysterical girls watching.

“Come ‘ead lads, yer instruments are waitin’ for ye inside.” Their head of security instructed, shifting into park and stepping out of the car. The band followed suit, and once again they managed to slip by unnoticed. Once inside, the Beatles fell quickly into their traditional pre-show routines: tuning instruments, checking amps and finalizing the set list.

“Geo, we’ve re-worked the song list so ye can take it easy tonight…” Paul said kindly as he sat tuning his bass. “Ye’ll only have to do one big numbah, an’ then ye’ll just be on backing vocals for the rest of the night.” The older Beatle smiled reassuringly. “We’ve taken out “Don’t Bother Me” and replaced it with “This Boy”, and then we’ve moved “I’m Happy Just to Dance With You” so it’s the second song now. Ye’ll get yer biggest performance out of the way and then ye can just lay low for the rest of the evening.”

“Thank you…” George mumbled, so relieved he could have cried. “Ey lads, do any of ye have any aspirin?” He managed with great effort. The guitarist was beginning to feel quite feverish again; the pangs in his belly were steadily growing sharper, and the pre-show butterflies weren’t helping him to feel less nauseous. After a few moments of everyone searching their jacket pockets, Brian finally came to the young man’s rescue.

“Here.” Brian said, holding up the bottle and giving it a quick shake before tossing it to George, who caught it deftly in one hand. He swallowed three of the pills dry, gagging at the bitter taste. The musician hoped that the absence of a decent meal in the past few hours wouldn’t upset his stomach further. The lead guitarist was so exhausted and sick; he would have given anything to be able to go home, crawl in bed, and sleep until the pain went away.

Seemingly out of nowhere, Ringo materialized by George’s side and laid a comforting hand on his shoulder.

“How’re ye holdin’ up, love?” The drummer asked, running his hand soothingly up and down his mate’s bony back. Ritchie could feel the heat from George’s fever, even through the younger musician’s shirt and jacket. He was burning up.

“Feel bloody sick…” George sighed heavily, digging his slender fingers into his stomach to try and quell the pain, which seemed to be slowly migrating down towards his right side as it intensified.

“I know, lad, I know…” Ringo fussed, sitting down next to the younger Beatle, wrapping his arm around George’s scrawny shoulders and pulling him close so that he could rest his head on the older man’s shoulder for a fleeting moment. “There ye go, Georgie… jus’ rest for a second…”

For George, being able to shut his tired eyes, even for a brief moment, was like an oasis in a never ending desert. If he had been able to, the lead guitarist would have stayed there with his best mate -no, his big brother- for the remainder of the night. Alas, the show had to go on, and there was no turning back now with less than half an hour until they were expected on stage.

Those thirty minutes leading up to their performance were a frantic, adrenaline-fueled blur of final tune-ups, mic checks, amp adjustments and vocal warm-ups. From George’s perspective, everything seemed to be going much too fast, and with each second that passed he grew more and more regretful of his decision to participate in the concert. To make matters worse, the aspirin he’d taken didn’t seem to being doing much to alleviate his symptoms. Perhaps he should have gone to see a doctor…

And then all of a sudden, it was time, and George was following the rest of his bandmates out onto the stage. The audience applauded wildly as the musicians stepped up to their microphones and Ringo counted off. George’s body shifted into autopilot as he heard John strum the opening notes of “All My Loving”; the well-practiced chords still came easily to him even in his ailing state.

Looking out over the audience, the lead guitarist found himself ruminating on his current situation. This was decidedly _not_ how George had imagined feeling when he had daydreamed about playing here at Carnegie Hall. He had pictured himself feeling ecstatic, enjoying what surely should have been the performance of a lifetime. Instead, he was downright miserable. The pain in his stomach was severe enough that it was beginning to hurt to stand up straight, and George found himself dreading his turn on lead vocals. He did however, repeatedly thank his lucky stars that a sore throat was not included among the myriad of symptoms of whatever bug he had come down with.

“All my loving, all my loving, oooh all my loving, I will send to you!” Paul sang, and the applause crashed over the band like a tidal wave as the final notes rang out.

 _Fuckin’ hell…_ George thought as the bassist stepped back from the mic. Just singing backup had been strenuous enough; the repeated contracting of his diaphragm and abdominal muscles was not helping him to feel any better. But, it couldn't be helped, he was onstage and therefore was expected to at least sing _something_.

“Before this dance is through, I think I’ll love you too,” George began as he picked the familiar chords. Projecting his voice out over the crowd was a good deal more painful than the low backing vocals he’d already been tortured with, but his unwavering determination to keep his troubles to himself won out. The crowd clapped and sang along enthusiastically, completely oblivious to George’s agony.

After what felt like years, the song finally ended, and not a second too soon. The lead guitarist stepped away from the microphone and John launched into “Baby It’s You”. Suddenly, George was feeling queasy and lightheaded all over again. The stage lights seemed blinding and he felt as though a thick fog had clouded his mind. There was far too much going on around him, and all of his willpower was being channelled into playing as normally as possible and not gagging into the microphone.

George was far too occupied with his bodily woes to notice almost anything else that was happening. He paid no mind to the TV and film executives sitting in the audience, and it hadn’t even occurred to the lead guitarist to scan the crowd for the celebrities that he knew were supposed to be there: Marilyn Monroe, Jerry Lewis, Marlon Brando. None of it mattered. The upscale venue and superstar audience couldn’t distract him from the chills that ravaged his thin frame, or from just how terribly his stomach hurt.

The lead guitarist was also very afraid that he might actually be sick on stage. His head seemed to spin, and he was certain that he would faint or throw up or otherwise make a complete and utter arse of himself before the show ended. Nothing of the sort happened, although George would never be quite sure how he managed to maintain his composure for the duration of the show.

The youngest Beatle couldn’t have stumbled backstage quickly enough after their final bow. As soon as he was out of the audience’s line of vision, George came crashing to his knees and began retching his meager stomach contents onto the floor. For a brief moment, his bandmates were paralyzed in shock.

Paul was the first to recover, and immediately knelt beside the younger man, comforting him. George wasn't focused on anything besides the repetitive and painful contracting of his insides, but in the back of his mind he did register that one of his mates was rubbing circles on his back and physically supporting him so that he didn't pitch forward into his own mess. It seemed like ages, but the dry heaves finally ceased and the lead guitarist collapsed against the wall, tear tracks shining on his fever-flushed cheeks. No one quite knew what to say, so the bassist set about loosening George's tie and unbuttoning his collar to make him more comfortable.

Sidestepping the puddle on the carpet, John strode off, presumably to find Brian or Mal. Ringo joined George and Paul on the ground in order to check George’s temperature. It was certainly on the rise again, but he wasn’t on fire like he had been before the show.

“Fer chrissakes Harrison, why didn't ye say ye felt that ill?” Paul finally spoke.

“Didn't feel nauseous til we were on stage…” George mumbled, completely drained by recent events. The lead guitarist was quiet for a fleeting second before he doubled over, groaning as he endured another bout of debilitating stomach cramps.

“Nasty bug ye’ve picked up, Geo.” Ringo commented, nervously pressing his hand to George’s clammy forehead once more. “Ye should really go see a doctah, yer temp’rature’s goin’ up again…”

“No…” The sick musician managed. “S’ just a bug.”

“Are ye _sure_ , love?” Paul asked, making no attempt to mask the concern in his voice.

“I just want ta go t’ bed…” The lead guitarist mumbled exhaustedly.

“Alright son,” The bassist conceded, “We’re goin’ home…”

As if on cue, John returned with Eppy in tow.

“The car’s waiting out back, boys. We're going straight back to the hotel so George can get a good night’s rest.” Epstein announced. It was strange for his words to go uncontested, the band usually wanted to go out dancing or drinking after a successful show.

“C’mon Georgie Boy, up ye go…” Paul spoke softly, looping an arm around George’s skinny torso and signaling for the drummer to do the same. The two musicians hauled the exhausted young man to his feet as gently as they could, and supported most of his weight as they made their way out to the limo. Throughout all of this, George couldn’t help feeling like a terrible burden for causing the band so much trouble; if he’d spent a few more seconds on stage, he would have ruined the show!

The ride back to the hotel passed without further incident, though the motion of the car did make George feel sick to his stomach again. For the second time that night, the limo pulled around to a side entrance to avoid the few dedicated Beatlemaniacs still holding their ground at the front of the hotel.

Now it was Lennon’s turn to support their indisposed member as the group made its way back to the hotel room. Everything seemed foggy to George as he was guided into the elevator by John, who had taken to comforting the lead guitarist by running a hand up and down his back.

“C’mon now, Georgie, walk with me. We’re almost there…” The older Beatle murmured as he escorted George down the hallway to their suite.

Uneasy silence filled the room as the Beatles milled about getting ready for bed. John felt it was still far too early to turn in, and after putting on his pajamas, he settled into the couch with his book to pass the time. Paul on the other hand had collapsed into bed immediately after changing out of his suit. Ringo took his time brushing his teeth and changing into his pajamas so that he could quietly observe how their youngest was faring. It didn't take a detective to conclude that George was downright miserable, one glance at his ashen pallor would have tipped anyone off.

For George, changing into his pajamas was a slow and painful process. His stomach was absolutely killing him, and even the most benign actions only served to make him hurt more. On top of that, he still felt terribly queasy; it was a miracle that he had managed to change clothes without throwing up again.

“G’night, Ritchie…” George muttered as he carefully eased himself into bed, silently praying that he could sleep off whatever illness he had come down with as he pulled the duvet tightly around himself.

…

George only managed to get about two hours of sleep before he jolted awake, the only thought on his mind was that he was going to be sick again in a matter of seconds. Flinging off the covers, he stumbled blindly to the loo, and made it just in time. Outside in the bedroom, the light flicked on, and Ringo appeared in the doorway seconds later. He stood for a moment, dumbfounded and not quite knowing how best to proceed.

The scene was heart wrenching to observe and the drummer felt pathetically useless as George convulsed on the ground, coughing and gagging. Finally, Ringo settled on kneeling down next to the sick Beatle and rubbing his bony back in a show of comfort.

“Easy, Geo, easy now, love…” The older man murmured, feeling rather inadequate.

The lead guitarist didn't have much in him to bring back up in the first place, but it seemed to George that he was hunched over the toilet bowl coughing up bile for ages. When the ordeal was over, he slumped against the bathtub in exhaustion, tears leaking from the corners of his eyes.

“Georgie, this isn't good…” Ringo said stupidly.

The lead guitarist was far too focused on the acidic burning in his throat and the unbearable, knifelike pain in his stomach to pay attention to anything else. Doubling over, George groaned as he was gripped by a fresh wave of agony, tears continuing to stream down his cheeks.

“Yer gettin’ worse, I mean.” The drummer clarified, reaching past George to retrieve a washcloth from the bathtub and run it under the cold tap. Once he had done this, Ringo occupied himself by cleaning any remaining traces of vomit from the young man’s tear-stained face.

George’s pajamas were practically soaked through with sweat, and his bangs were plastered to his forehead, Ringo noticed as he pressed his hand to the side of George's face. The scorching fever had returned with a vengeance. What was wrong with him? What kind of virus could have made George this sick?

And then he remembered. In that moment, Richard Starkey remembered how that horrible stomach ache and fever had landed him in the hospital for most of his childhood.

“George, where _exactly_ does it hurt?!” The drummer demanded, prying his friend’s hands away from where they were protecting his midsection.

“Me stomach, ‘ere…” George whimpered, indicating the lower right quadrant of his abdomen.

“Bloody fuckin’ ‘ell.” Ringo swore under his breath. “Alright Georgie, I’m goin’ ta get Johnny and Macca to come sit with ye, then I’m goin ta get Brian.” He explained softly, as if to a scared child.

With that, the drummer was off and running. First and foremost, he wrenched open the door to John and Paul’s room, flipping on the light switch with no consideration for the fact that his friends were asleep. The two sleeping musicians had only begun to stir slightly before Ringo was upon them, shaking them awake and speaking frantically.

“Paulie, Johnny, get up, get up now. It's Harrison,” Ringo explained as the two boys came around. “‘E’s really sick, ‘e’s gotta go t’ the hospital.”

Neither John nor Paul seemed groggy anymore. They were on their feet in the blink of an eye, listening intently to the drummer’s every word.

“Go an’ sit with ‘im, he’s in the othah bathroom. I’m goin’ ta get Brian!” Ringo exclaimed as he dashed back out of the room and out into the hallway; time was of the essence.

Brian and Mal were asleep in the next room over when they were jolted awake by someone frantically banging on the door. Mal was the first to come to his senses, angrily dragging himself from the comfort of his bed and stumbling to the door, muttering curses to himself all the while. If this was the boys’ idea of a joke, he was going to throttle them; the fans would just have to make do without their precious heartthrobs…

Looking through the peephole, Mal was shocked to see Ringo, looking petrified and as though he might break down the door at any second. Thankfully, that was avoided when the head of security unlocked the door and pulled the drummer inside.

“Ringo, what’s going on? What the hell are you doing?” Mal hissed. He shouldn’t have been out in the hallway by himself. No telling what sort of crazed fan could potentially be lurking in the shadows.

“Where’s Eppy?! It’s George, ‘e needs ta go t’ a hospital _now_!” Ringo cried as he brushed past Mal, who couldn’t get a word in edgewise over the musician’s panicked rambling. At long last, Brian emerged from the bedroom, drawn by the commotion. Ringo nearly knocked his manager over in his haste to get to him.

“What on _earth_ is the matter?!” Brian shouted. Epstein was never one to raise his voice, and his sudden outburst silenced Mal and Ringo instantly. “Now,” he stated calmly, “Ringo, tell me what’s happening.”

“George needs to be taken t’ the hospital! ‘E’s got appendicitis, ‘e could _die_ if we don’t go now!!” The drummer was the one shouting now.

“Ritchie…” Brian surprised everyone with the use of the musician’s real name. “We’re all very concerned about George, but how do you know? Are you absolutely sure?”

“ _I know because the same fuckin’ thing almost killed me!!!_ ” Ringo yelled, lifting his pajama top slightly to indicate the appendectomy scar on his belly. His manager’s calm demeanor was infuriating in the face of such imminent danger.

Epstein’s countenance steeled, and he strode briskly out into the hallway and into the Beatles’ room. John and Paul were in one of the bedrooms, doing what little they could to comfort George, whom they had moved from the cold tile floor of the bathroom to one of the beds. Paul sat criss-cross on the bed with the lead guitarist’s head resting in his lap so that he could stroke his sweaty hair affectionately, and George lay curled up on his side, crying in anguish with his lanky arms still shielding his middle.

“It hurts, it hurts…” George moaned over and over in between heaving sobs, gritting his teeth against the tormenting pain, with tears still coursing down his face.

John was kneeling beside the bed so that he was at eye level with his friend, murmuring a nonsensical stream of comforting words to try and keep the youngest band member from panicking. If Ringo’s outburst hadn’t fully convinced Brian of just how dire the situation was, the scene before his eyes was all it took to prove that the drummer was right, and immediate action was fully necessary.

But how were they to get the lead guitarist to the hospital? Brian knew they needed to keep as low a profile as possible until George was seen by a doctor. Calling an ambulance to the hotel could quickly result in lots of unwanted press attention. Everyone in the city knew exactly where the Beatles were staying, it had been all over the news and in the papers the day they arrived in New York. Brian and Mal would just have to drive there themselves, speed limits be damned.

“Mal, go and bring the car around back.” Epstein commanded. The Beatles’ head of security nodded stiffly before practically sprinting out of the room. Brian then crossed the room to join the three Beatles on the bed, very much like a father checking on a sick child.

“George, we’re going to take you to the hospital. We need to have you looked at, find out what’s wrong with you so you can start feeling better.” Eppy explained gently. The younger man’s eyes widened in fear. “You’ll be alright, I promise.” Brian said earnestly before slowly and carefully helping George up off the bed. The poor boy was in such a state that he could barely stand on his own, forcing Epstein to support most of the musician’s weight.

“Boys, stay here.” Brian added as the two made for the door. John, Paul and Ringo all looked ready to pitch a fit, but he cut them off. “Please, I’ll call as soon as I can. Do _not_ leave this room until Mal or I return.”

And then the three Beatles were on their own. No one knew what to do, for they were all far too anxious and numb with shock to go back to sleep.

“I’m goin’ ta make tea.” Paul said robotically, breaking the tense silence at long last. Over the next twenty minutes, the uncomfortable quiet prevailed as they waited for the kettle to boil and then retired to the sitting area to wait for Brian’s call. Paul settled onto the couch, staring at the ground to avoid eye contact with his bandmates in between sips of his tea. John took one of the plush armchairs and unsuccessfully tried to distract himself with his book. Ringo curled up in the armchair towards the other end of the sofa, knees drawn up to his chest and looking for all the world like he might begin to cry at any second.

“What’s gonna ‘appen t’ ‘im?” Paul asked quietly, after what felt like ages. John and Ringo both looked up at the bassist, unsure of exactly what Paul was asking. “What’ll happen t’ Georgie at the hospital? How will the doctors know if it is his appendix?” Paul clarified, sensing their confusion. The drummer could tell that his friend’s question was directed at him.

“Ehm, well I don’t remembah much to be honest…” Ringo began, shifting in his seat so that his legs were tucked up under him. “But they sort of, um, press on yer stomach in different places ta see where it hurts most… An’ I suppose ‘e’ll probably need x-rays…” The eldest Beatle trailed off quietly. The other two seemed satisfied enough with his reply, and they didn’t ask him any more questions.

…

For Dr. Jeremy Eastman, it had been an exceptionally dull graveyard shift at St. Mary’s Hospital, and he was absolutely exhausted. He’d been whiling away the past hour by doodling eyes all over a pad of paper and humming to himself to try and stay awake. The doctor really ought to go get another cup of coffee, but the thought of sneaking a nap at his desk was extremely tempting. True, it was rather unprofessional, but nothing had happened all night. Surely a few minutes wouldn’t hurt…

“Dr. Eastman! Dr. Eastman!” One of the nurses, a middle aged woman named Sharon, burst into his office just as he had been about to close his eyes. “The Beatles! One of the Beatles is here!!”

“What!?!?” Dr. Eastman leapt up from his desk and allowed Sharon to lead him as she strode purposefully out the door and down the vacant hallway.

“George; George Harrison was just brought in by his manager.” The nurse explained, rounding the corner and halting just outside the door which led to the ER. _Impossible…_ Jeremy thought. He’d seen the Beatles on television mere hours ago. What could have possibly happened since then that would land one of them in his hospital?”

“Thank you, Sharon.” Jeremy nodded gravely before opening the door and stepping inside.

The nurse was right. George Harrison was lying on the table, ashen and sobbing, clearly in a great deal of pain. There was another man by the star’s side (the manager, perhaps?), who was doing his best to comfort the frightened young man.

“Mr. Harrison, I’m Dr. Eastman,” Jeremy began, calm and controlled as he approached the two men. “I’m here to help you, can you tell me what’s wrong?”

“Hurts…” George ground out, unable to manage anything else through the pain.

“He’s had a stomach ache that's been getting worse all day, and he’s been sick more than once.” The older man cut in to save the musician from further exerting himself. “I’m Brian Epstein, I’m his manager.” Brian added upon seeing the brief look of confusion on the doctor’s face. “He’s been running a temperature as well; I think he has appendicitis.”

Dr. Eastman gave a quick nod before addressing George directly.

“Now George, I’m going to examine you, okay? I’m going to palpate your abdomen so we can find out what’s wrong with you.” The doctor explained patiently, edging closer to George and moving the young man’s pajama top out of the way. Beginning at the bottom of his ribcage and working down towards the waistband of the Beatle’s pajamas, the doctor pressed down gently but firmly on George’s stomach to locate the epicenter of the pain. When Dr. Eastman’s hands reached the lower right quadrant of the musician’s abdomen, George found himself choking back a scream as white-hot agony ripped through his insides.

All of the sudden, it seemed that everything was happening at once. Nurses were called in, and the ailing musician was taken away on a stretcher while Brian tried his best to answer the doctor’s questions about George’s medical history. Before there was even time to think, Epstein found himself being ushered out of the room and down into the waiting area.

From there, the night seemed to drag on endlessly. Apart from the receptionist typing away at the front desk and Mal sitting stone-faced and silent in one of the corner chairs, Brian was alone in the waiting room, leaving him with plenty of territory for pacing anxiously. Mal and Brian didn’t feel much like talking and the tense silence that hung between them could have been cut with a knife. Updates on George’s condition were few and far between. Occasionally, one of the nurses would approach Brian with some new piece of information:

“He’s been brought for confirmatory testing, Mr. Epstein.”

“Mr. Epstein? Yes, Mr. Harrison is being taken down to surgery right now.”

“No, I’m sorry Mr. Epstein, I don’t know when he’ll be out.”

Brian was growing desperate for some shred of relative good news that he could give to the boys back at the hotel. Just when it was looking like Epstein and Mal would have to head back to the hotel for the night and return in the morning, Brian heard Dr. Eastman calling his name.


	3. Getting Better

For hours it seemed, the three remaining Beatles tried to take the edge off of waiting in any way they could. John continued with his book, Ringo occupied himself with a game of solitaire, and Paul idly flipped through channels on television, trying to find something to divert his attention from waiting for the phone to ring. Eventually, Paul did find that posh bird they all hated on telly, the “trendsetter”, but no one had the heart to partake in their tradition of muting the TV and cracking rude jokes.

Besides, it wouldn’t have been any fun without George. They were all so worried about their lead guitarist that they didn’t know what to do. George was a talented musician and a wonderful songwriter, but he was still the youngest in the group, and in many ways that made him their baby brother. The older boys couldn’t help feeling responsible for him sometimes. Ringo thought back to when George had taken a punch for him from a Pete Best fan shortly after the drummer had joined the band, and the awful black eye that the lead guitarist had sported for weeks afterward. Paul fondly remembered their days in Hamburg, where every night was spent with two boys to a bed, and whoever shared a bed with George was bound to wake up entwined in his lanky limbs. John recalled George’s penchant for silliness backstage and during late-night recording sessions, how George could always make everyone smile when it seemed they were about to crack under stress.

“When d’ye think Eppy’ll call?” John’s question broke the group from its collective reverie.

“I dunno…” Paul said after a long silence. “Soon I hope…”

As if on cue, the telephone on the side table rang, making everyone jump. Ringo picked up the receiver before it could ring again.

“Brian?”

“Ritchie? Ritchie I’m sorry that I doubted you at all. You were right, George developed appendicitis.” Epstein confirmed.

“Shit.” The drummer swore under his breath. “Is ‘e gonna be alright?”

“He’s in surgery now. The doctors told me his appendix was close to rupturing.” Brian sighed.

“What else did the doctahs say?” Ringo pressed further, looking to find out as much information as possible.

“We got him here just in time. George is going to be alright. He’ll be in hospital for a day or two, but he’s going to be fine. I’m very sorry Ringo, I shouldn't’ have doubted you for a second.” Epstein’s voice sounded hollow and exhausted.

“Don’t beat yerself up, Eppy. Just glad Georgie’s gonna be okay.” The musician consoled his manager.

“I’m going to stay here until George is out of surgery, but Mal is on the way back now. Try to get some sleep.” Brian advised.

“Okay...” Ringo heaved a shaky sigh, “Alright, thanks Brian. G’night.” He said, placing the receiver back in the cradle.

“Georgie's gonna be alright, lads.” The drummer announced, leaning wearily back against his armchair. The other two Beatles mirrored his reaction, letting the silence hang in the air for a while before dragging their fatigued bodies back to bed one by one.

...

No one was especially talkative that next morning over breakfast. Lack of sleep had already made the boys rather irritable, but they were downright furious after Mal told them that their schedule for the day was packed and they wouldn’t be able to visit George in hospital, even for a few moments. Their head of security did try to reason with them, but quickly gave up after receiving nothing but death glares in response. Neither Brian nor Mal felt particularly good about leaving George on his own in a hospital so far from home, but the story had somehow leaked to the press early that morning, and now every magazine and newspaper in the country was clamoring for an interview with the three other Beatles.

And of course, there was the reworking of their previously-planned schedule to figure out as well. Brian had slotted in as many interviews as he could in between various photo shoots and fan meetings, but there was still the question of what was to become of the band’s scheduled appearance on The Mike Douglas Show that night. And then of course, would George recover in time for their Monday-night concert in Madison Square Garden? It was barely 9:00 AM and the Beatles’ manager was already nearing his last nerve.

Meanwhile at the hospital, the dark-haired young man in room 909 was just coming to for the first time since his surgery last night. George was still a bit woozy from the anesthetic, but the first thing he noticed was a dull, throbbing soreness radiating from the lower right side of his stomach, as if someone had punched him repeatedly in the gut. This was all it took to jog his memory, and the events of the previous night came flooding back to him: the concert, the fever, the vomiting and the hot, roiling pain that had seemed liable to rip his insides apart. The next thing the lead guitarist picked up on was the fact that he was alone in the sterile white room. No Brian, no Mal, none of his mates…

The musician felt a wave of loneliness crash over him despite the knowledge that the projected schedule for that day had included countless interviews and photoshoots. Could they really be so busy that they couldn´t stop by even for a few minutes? It seemed so…

¨You’re awake! ¨ A chipper, American-accented voice startled George from his glum thoughts, and he looked over to the door to see a pretty brunette nurse striding into the room, white kitten heels clicking on the tile.

¨It’s about time you came around! ¨ She commented brightly as she set about checking his vitals. ¨How’re you feeling? ¨

¨Pretty sore…” George tested his voice, finding it somewhat rough from its overuse the night before.

“Want me to see if I can get you something for the pain?” The young girl asked kindly, leaning in so she could check on his stitches.

“No, thank you…” The musician mumbled, looking down at the bandages protecting his sutures in mild disbelief. Last night still felt like a distant dream. While she went about her work, George quietly observed his new companion. She was quite young, that was obvious, probably just out of nursing school. Warm brown eyes matched the short, bouncy brown tresses that framed her face, and the dusting of freckles across her button nose made her look even more juvenile. The lead guitarist would have expected to see her shrieking at a concert rather than here at his bedside. Even so, she seemed to know what she was doing.

“Looks like you're healing up nicely.” The pretty nurse smiled shyly, revealing two rows of perfect teeth. “You’ll be out of here tomorrow morning, I guarantee it. Is there anything I can get you?” She continued as she carefully helped him to sit up and lean back against the headboard.

“Ehm, not at the moment.” George said. “Thank you, though....” He added after a second, eliciting another bashful grin from the girl.

“Well, if you need anything later, just ask for me. My name’s Elizabeth, by the way. Call me Lizzy.” She commented as she turned and walked back out into the hallway, chestnut curls bouncing merrily.

Now, what was he going to do all day? There was no telling when Brian or Mal could show up; or if they would even be able to show up, for that matter. George was beginning to think that perhaps he should’ve asked for a book…

…

“Y’know Epstein, maybe if ye weren’t such a fuckin’ _twat_ then we wouldn’t be behavin’ like children!!” John snapped, crossing his arms over his chest for emphasis and looking bitterly out the window.

“Oh shut up, Lennon, s’not _‘is_ fault that the interview went to shite!” Paul shot back, “Ye did say some pretty rude things ta that journalist!” The bassist reminded him. The stress of the day was already too much, and the boys had begun to take it out on each other. John had been rather short with a young journalist, and it had all spiraled from there. Ringo had gone almost completely silent since the interview ended, and John and Paul had been glaring daggers at each other all the way back to the car. Once the doors closed, it seemed that all hell had broken loose.

“Well, it’s her fault that we can’t go visit Harrison!! We’re stuck answerin’ ‘er ridiculous questions instead of goin’ ta see ‘im!! Or ‘ave ye forgotten that ‘e’s in the fuckin’ _hospital_ , McCartney?!” The rhythm guitarist spat. He was about to hurl another scathing comment, but the drummer beat him to it.

“Shut the hell up!!” Ringo screamed furiously, “All of ye!! Just _fuckin’_ shut up! Ye’re not goin’ ta fix anythin’ screamin’ at each othah!”

No one dared to speak for the remainder of the ride.

Though the fighting ceased, tension still hung in the air through their next press meeting and it showed no signs of dissipating as they found themselves back in the limo being whisked away to their next obligation. Brian was more than a bit nervous that there would be a repeat incident at the next interview, but the boys managed to put on a decent act of not behaving like they were about to kill each other.

The day grew monotonous very quickly. All of the interviewers seemed to have the same questions:

“Now, if you don’t mind, could you tell us what happened after the concert last night?”

“Any word on when they’ll be releasing Mr. Harrison from the hospital?”

“What will it mean for this tour if George is laid up for a few days?”

But without fail, every journalist seemed to inquire as to whether or not the rest of the band had been to visit the lead guitarist yet; and each time Epstein was sure that this would be it- this time one of them would snap. The car rides between each successive appointment grew progressively more tense, yet still no one dared to shatter the strained silence that reigned over the group.

Of course, Brian had experienced his fair share of arguments with the Beatles over the years, but something about this was different. John and Paul seemed to genuinely think that their manager was trying to prevent them from seeing their friend just for the sake of being cruel, when in fact Brian was also furious about their current situation. Did the boys honestly think he wanted to leave George on his own?

Epstein still had some of his contacts in New York trying to figure out how the story had leaked to the press so quickly. Brian was absolutely livid; if he ever got his hands on the culprit, he’d throttle them. All things considered, it was a miracle in and of itself that the fans hadn’t yet figured out which hospital George had been brought to. Brian could only imagine what kind of fiasco that would be; police blockades at every door, swarms of screaming fans. While Brian occupied himself by running through every possible disaster that could occur before the end of the day, Ringo found himself swept up by restless thoughts of his own.

The drummer had been feeling incredibly guilty ever since Brian had confirmed that George had indeed developed appendicitis. The exact same thing had happened to him; he should’ve known what was wrong with his friend much sooner. The stomach ache and the vomiting and the fever should have tipped him off right away, but it hadn't. George had suffered for hours, and Ringo couldn’t help feeling that it was all his fault. What if his appendix had ruptured? The oldest Beatle knew from experience that the complications could be life threatening.

As the day wore on, the atmosphere shifted from one of hostility to one of the same gloomy melancholy that Brian recalled from earlier that year when Starr had been hospitalized with tonsillitis. John and Paul were still unnaturally subdued, and Ringo hadn’t said a word outside of the interviews since his flare-up earlier that morning. Epstein sighed morosely as he stared at the city landscape rolling by out the window, wishing that this awful day would just end already.

...

As fate would have it, George had actually been having a somewhat pleasant day, all things considered. Once it had been determined that he could keep down a few sips of water and a light meal, a doctor had come to remove the IV from the crook of his elbow, and George had been allowed to change into a pair of pajamas that Brian had left for him. After that, he’d spent most of his time skimming some of the books that Lizzy had found for him. She had stopped in to chat with him whenever she could, but she did have other patients to attend to, so George had been on his own for a good chunk of the time.

“George?” He was startled back to the present by the voice that he had grown accustomed to over the course of the day. Looking up from his book, he saw the familiar petite figure in the doorway; his companion had returned.

“It's my break now and I thought you might want someone to talk to…” Lizzy offered with a shy grin. George smiled in return and gestured to the empty chair by his bedside. He couldn't help but notice the faint blush that spread across her face as she stepped inside to join him. He’d observed little things like that all day.

The way she would nervously wring her hands whenever she asked if he needed anything, the bashful smiles whenever he spoke with her, the way she blushed whenever George thanked her. It had quickly become evident that Lizzy was a Beatles fan; perhaps not the screaming and fainting variety, but it was very obvious to the lead guitarist that the pretty young nurse was elated to be around him.

“Your friends are gonna be on the Mike Douglas Show tonight! Think you feel up to going to the lounge to watch?” She asked excitedly.

“I think so…” George nodded. He wondered what the rest of the band would be doing on the show in place of the performance they had planned, and tried his best to ignore the guilt welling up inside of him. Thankfully, Lizzy was determined to keep the conversation going, which didn't leave much time for George to dwell on his gloomy thoughts.

She was very intrigued by him, and she asked all sorts of question that he was glad to answer. What sort of films did he like? Was it difficult traveling all the time? What had made him decide to play guitar in the first place? George much preferred Lizzy’s questions to the vapid, meaningless inquiries of the journalists he dealt with on a daily basis. At least she seemed to be genuinely interested in getting to know him.

The time passed much more quickly when George was talking with his new friend and soon Lizzy was guiding him down to the lounge where some of the long-term patients would gather to watch television in the evenings. Upon arrival, Lizzy noted that the customarily quiet room was a buzz of activity; it seemed everyone was excited to see the Beatles appearance on TV that night. The other patients were all delighted to see that George Harrison himself was joining them to watch, but they were kind enough not to bombard him with questions.

The lead guitarist found himself wedged into the corner of a worn but comfortable sofa with Lizzy at his side. Suddenly, the quiet chatter in the room disappeared as the screen in front of them lit up. George felt another twinge of guilt as he watched John, Paul and Ritchie step out onto the stage and take their seats opposite the host, Mike Douglas. Seemingly out of the blue, George was terribly upset. He didn’t want to see what had become of their planned performance. He’d let everyone down…

…

“Now boys, it’s a bit strange to see only three of you here tonight.” Mike Douglas commented, “And of course we’ve all heard the news and all the rumors, but can any of you tell the audience exactly why you’re one short tonight?” He asked cheerfully.

John, Paul and Ringo had answered this question countless times throughout the day, and frankly they were sick of talking about the events of the previous night, but they couldn’t act up on live television.

“Well Mike, as I’m sure y’know, George is in hospital right now.” Paul explained, “‘E ‘ad ta have his appendix taken out.”

“Yes, and precisely what happened last night? Any details you boys are willing to share?” The host continued jovially, leaning back casually in his armchair.

“Yesterday mornin’ wasn’t very eventful, but George seemed a bit off durin’ rehearsals, and then ‘e started sayin’ ‘e didn’t feel well before the press conference.” John began. “Then ‘e just kept gettin’ worse. Before Carnegie Hall ‘e was in a pretty bad way, but then aftah the show ‘e felt really awful.”

“I dunno how ‘e managed to last through the show t’ be honest…” Ringo cut in helpfully.

“Yeah, yeah” John nodded in agreement, “George was really jus’ very, very sick; but ‘e didn’t think t’ go to a doctah, ‘e just wanted to get back to the hotel and sleep it off.”

“So we all went back ta the hotel n’ went ta bed.” Paul added.

“Right.” The drummer jumped in again. “Then a few hours later George woke up, an’ ‘e was still just in a terrible state, so that’s when Epstein decided that ‘e needed to take George to see a doctah.” Ringo concluded.

“Sounds like you had a pretty dramatic night.” Mike smiled, oblivious to how angry he was making the three Beatles by making light of their friend’s situation. “And now I’ve heard that you boys haven’t been able to go visit George yet?” The interviewer continued.

“No. We _‘aven’t_.” John said rather crossly. Loathe as he was to do it, the rhythm guitarist had at least tried to remain pleasant while recounting the traumatic events of the previous night, but the host’s last question was the final straw. Mercifully, it was McCartney to the rescue.

“We’ve all been rather sad about that t’ be honest.” Paul admitted earnestly, “It just doesn’t feel the same without ‘im.”

“An’ Georgie, if ye’re watchin’ this, we miss ye and we hope ye’re feelin’ bettah.” Ringo said with a heartfelt smile.

John observed that the studio audience seemed touched by the Beatles’ display of genuine emotion, responding with a quick, polite round of applause.

“Yes, all of us here in the studio wish Mr. Harrison a speedy recovery as well. But in the meantime, are you boys sure you can’t sing a trio for us?” Mike joked, eliciting some hearty laughter from the audience, and earning a few chuckles from the boys as well.

Back at the hospital, George felt happy tears welling up in his eyes after he heard them- his bandmates, his best friends, his big brothers- admit on live television that they missed him and couldn’t wait for him to come home. Thankfully, the youngest Beatle did manage to avoid actually crying, and the knot of guilt in his chest finally dissipated as he watched his mates joke around with Mike Douglas for the remainder of the show.

After the program ended, George and Lizzy hung around the lounge and chatted with some of the other patients for a while before the musician found himself growing rather sleepy. The pair politely made their excuses, and Lizzy escorted her friend back to room 909 and helped him get settled in bed. Between the ever present jet-lag brought on by touring and the lack of sleep the night before, the lead guitarist was absolutely knackered, but he spent a fair bit of time tossing and turning before he finally drifted off into an uneasy sleep.


	4. Golden Slumbers

The next morning, George Harrison was up before the sun in order to make it back to the hotel before the overzealous fans began crowding the entrance like they had been yesterday. Epstein was naturally an early riser, so he was the one responsible for transporting the lead guitarist back to the hotel. George was still exhausted and his stitches were still rather sore when Lizzy led him out to the front entrance to meet his manager. Despite the early hour, Brian was still dressed to the nines in his customary suit and tie, and it made George feel a bit silly to be standing there in his pajamas.

Eppy seemed thrilled to see the youngest Beatle again, and pulled George into a warm, friendly hug as soon as he was given the chance. The ride back to the hotel was pleasantly quiet as Brian drove through the uncharacteristically still streets of New York City, though Epstein did explain to George that he hadn’t scheduled anything for the day ahead, and the musician could go back to bed once they reached the hotel.

By some miracle, George managed to slip into his room and crawl into bed without waking Ringo, who was practically dead to the world. Despite the lingering soreness in his belly, his bed felt like heaven and George drifted off to sleep in a matter of moments.

A few hours later, Ringo awoke to find that the bed next to him was not empty as it had been last night when he retired back to his room shortly after Brian’s call. The drummer was shocked to discover that his youngest mate was sleeping soundly in bed, practically buried beneath the duvet and looking like he had been there the whole night.

The information took a moment to process. George was back? … _George was back!_

Ringo nearly injured himself in his haste to get out of bed and alert the others of Harrison’s return.

“John! John, Macca, get up! George’s back!” The oldest Beatle exclaimed, jumping on each of their beds in turn like a child trying to rouse his parents on Christmas morning. John and Paul lazily came around, both yawning and rubbing sleep from their eyes.

“What in the bleedin’ ‘ell are ye on about now?” The rhythm guitarist grumbled, burying his head beneath his pillow.

“Georgie’s back! ‘E’s back from the hospital.” Ringo cried merrily. “Must’ve come back earlier while we were all asleep.”

“An’ what’s ‘e doin’ now?” Paul inquired with an exasperated sigh.

“‘E’s sleepin’.” The drummer replied cheerfully.

“Then why on earth did ye need ta wake _us_ up?” McCartney demanded, playfully chucking his pillow at his friend, and hitting him square in the face.

“Oh... I suppose I didn’t hafta…” Ritchie mumbled, clearly a bit embarrassed.

“Ye’re bleedin’ right, Starr.” John asserted.

Neither John nor Paul could stay mad at their friend for very long though; George was home, and the boys had vowed to make sure that their youngest was well looked after now that he was back where he belonged.

Lennon was notoriously sluggish in the mornings and Paul knew it was going to be a while before John got around to dragging himself out of bed. The bassist decided that since Ringo had already woken him up, he may as well go join the drummer out in the living area to wait for John and George to wake up.

Brian, on the other hand, had been awake for hours and was currently scanning the papers for any news regarding the boys. He didn't have to look very hard; their television appearance the previous night had made the front page, and on the second page there was an article pertaining to George's recent hospitalization:

 

 

**Beatles Together Again**

_George Harrison is back with the band after a brief stay at St. Mary’s Hospital. Following the Beatles’ Friday night concert at Carnegie Hall, Harrison was admitted with severe abdominal pains. He is now recuperating after a routine appendectomy._

The article went on to detail the rest of the band’s activities in the city and speculate about their approaching concert in Madison Square Garden.

Meanwhile, back in the Beatles’ hotel suite, Paul and Ringo milled about watching the morning news on telly and combing the papers to see what the press had to say about their TV appearance the night before. The two Beatles both knew that John wouldn’t get up for an hour or so, and they wanted to let Georgie rest as much as possible after his ordeal.

Upon waking, the first thing that George noticed was the harsh, driving rain clattering against the window. The second thing that caught his attention was the quiet banter of his mates outside in the living area. The lead guitarist sat up slowly and carefully; he was still a bit sore and he didn't want to damage his stitches.

“Ye’re awake!” Paul cried excitedly when he caught a glimpse of George through the open door. The bassist tripped gracelessly over the coffee table in his excitement, sending himself crashing down onto the carpet. The commotion was enough to wake John, who shuffled out of his bedroom scowling and rubbing his eyes with his fist like a sleepy toddler.

“Was tryin’ ta bloody sleep…” The rhythm guitarist grouched, dragging himself to the sofa and flopping onto it melodramatically. “‘S goin’ on now?” He continued, stifling a yawn.

“Georgie’s awake!” McCartney exclaimed happily as he picked himself up and practically skipped into George’s room.

“‘Bout time ye came ‘round there, son.” John grinned, rising from his place on the couch to join his youngest mate in the bedroom. Paul and Ringo quickly followed suit. “We missed ye, Georgie.” The rhythm guitarist added earnestly, sitting down criss-cross on top of the duvet beside George.

“Ye gave us quite the scare there, love. How’re ye feelin’, Geo?” Paul queried.

“Lots better.” The youngest Beatle responded quietly, a shy smile playing on his lips.

“And ye’ve got a scar to match Ritchie’s now.” John quipped with a playful ruffle of George’s hair, earning a few giggles from his friend.

“Suppose I will once me stitches heal…” George agreed thoughtfully.

“Well, let’s see ‘em then!” Paul exclaimed. “Don’t be shy!”

“It’s just bandages for now.” The lead guitarist corrected, obligingly lifting his shirt out of the way so his mates could see the white expanse of gauze protecting his incision. “They said I can take ‘em off in a day or two.”

“Ye think ye’re up ta some breakfast and a cuppa tea?” Ringo asked, leaning casually against the doorframe. The boys all agreed that breakfast would be lovely, and the drummer was happy to whip up some scrambled eggs and toast for them to eat.

Not a single one of the Beatles bothered to change out of their pajamas that day. Instead, that rainy Sunday was spent warm and cozy, the boys doing nothing but talking, laughing, and trying out ideas for new songs.

George spent the whole day resting comfortably in bed, propped up on pillows, with a hot water bottle laid across his tummy to ease the lingering soreness around his stitches. John, Paul and Ringo were more than willing to wait on their youngest mate hand and foot, determined to ensure that George was safe and happy. The stress of concerts and touring wasn’t going to help him recover any faster.

George looked much better than he had the last time the rest of the band had seen him. His face was no longer drained of color, and the unnatural feverish brightness was long gone from his eyes. The rest of the band was relieved to see George smiling and healthy again. For once in his life, the normally-shy lead guitarist actually seemed happy to be the center of attention. George didn’t seem at all uncomfortable or embarrassed when his friends asked after his wellbeing or offered to help him with everyday tasks.

Later that night, when it came time for bed, John and Paul decided to share the bedroom with George and Ringo. Paul and Ritchie settled down together in the drummer’s bed, while John fashioned a sort of nest for himself out of blankets and pillows, and curled up on the carpet next to George’s bed. What would the papers say if they could see him? Bold, brash, arrogant John Winston Lennon, voluntarily sleeping on the floor so that his youngest mate -his baby brother- would feel loved and cared for.

Falling asleep in the hospital the night before had been no easy task. He recalled lying on the uncomfortable mattress feeling exhausted, sore, and lonely. Although George would still need quite a bit of rest before he would be up on stage again, he felt much better than he had last night.

Now, he was cozy in his bed, with his hot water bottle to soothe the remaining ache around his sutures, and his best friends surrounding him. Most importantly, George was home. He was thousands of miles from Liverpool and his Merseyside family, but it didn’t matter. As long as he was with his mates, he was home.


End file.
